


Must (Not) Let You Go

by cjr



Series: In His Best Friend's Arms [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (Only internal and minor), Bisexual Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes & Steve Rogers Friendship, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Fluff and Angst, Idiots in Love, M/M, Men making bad jokes, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Period Typical Attitudes, Pre-Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Unrequited Love, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-21
Updated: 2018-08-21
Packaged: 2019-06-30 12:43:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15751908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cjr/pseuds/cjr
Summary: “You’ll die in your best friend’s arms,” she said, and the smile slipped from Steve’s face as he yanked his hand away from the palm reader.“You can’t possibly know that,” he whispered, touching his life line.  Bucky had always told him that palm readers were bogus.ORSteve goes to a palm reader, gets told that he'll die in Bucky's arms, and Bucky takes that as a challenge from fate.  If he's not holding Steve, Steve can't die.  This is the story of how Bucky Barnes makes Steve Rogers immortal through the power of hugs (or no hugs, as the case may be).





	Must (Not) Let You Go

**Author's Note:**

> See endnotes for warnings

September 1942, Brooklyn

“You’ll die in your best friend’s arms,” she said, and the smile slipped from Steve’s face as he yanked his hand away from the palm reader.

“You can’t possibly know that,” he whispered, touching his life line. Bucky had always told him that palm readers were bogus but Steve’s mother had gone to Claire quarterly and had taken Steve when he was younger.

Now he went because he felt closer to his mother while sitting in the dimly lit apartment that smelled faintly of whatever candles were lit on various surfaces in an attempt to chase out the fresh winter cold.

“Your life and love lines intertwine in a very specific way, Mr. Rogers. But yes, telling the future is not an exact science. I don’t need to remind you of how I was correct in my prediction on your mother’s illness.”

“No, no. Of course not,” Steve said, knowing she had been correct about his mother’s death to tuberculosis. Buck always said anyone could’ve guessed it, she worked as a nurse in a tuberculosis clinic, after all. But Steve had never been able to discount palm reading, his mother’s faith in it too engrained in him.

“I’ll die in Buck’s arms?” He asked, more out of disbelief than out of wanting to know.

“If he is your best friend at the time of your death, so it may seem.”

If. Steve gave a self-deprecating laugh. There is no timeline in which his best friend isn’t Bucky Barnes.

He thanked Claire before heading home. Another perk of his mother’s faith was the free readings he got from her. When business was hard Claire would give him a reading in return for a sketch of Brooklyn. She said one day he would be famous and his art would be worth much more than one palm reading.

He walked slowly to his and Buck’s apartment. Drawing his coat in around his shoulders to protect himself from the wind, he decided to take a detour to walk by his favorite bakery. He could smell their bread a block away and if he smelled it right before eating whatever potato and hotdog combination Bucky was sure to have waiting, it almost tasted like warm bread.

He got home and was greeted with the smell of boiled potatoes. “Hey Buck!” he called into the room.

“Hiya, Stevie,” Bucky greeted him from where he sat at the table already eating. “Grab a plate and join me!”

Steve did, grabbing a paltry amount of the potato mixture. He saw a look flash across Bucky’s face that he interpreted as the other’s disappointment in his low appetite, but Bucky didn’t say anything about it, so neither did Steve. Instead Bucky asked, “So what’s in the cards for you this time?”

“It’s not cards and you know it,” Steve said, taking small bites of potatoes. “And more of the same, I’m going to do something great and unprecedented. This time she said she thinks it might be related to the war,” Steve said the last bit quietly, knowing Buck’s hesitancy whenever Steve mentioned the war in Europe. They both knew Steve would never be cleared for enlistment, he could barely walk across town when he got a cold. Steve knew that if the US did declare war, Buck would either enlist or be conscripted and Steve would be left behind.

Steve dreaded the thought of being left.

“Maybe. You’ve been doing tons of those, uh, posters and cards. You’re good at ‘em too. Wouldn’t be surprised if a piece of yours became a famous wartime work,” Buck replied, successfully avoiding the discussion of fighting in the war. “What else did she say?”

“How do you know she said anything more?”

“She always throws in something special. Remember last time? She said you’d get a job working for the newspaper,” Bucky smiled.

“And I did!” Steve exclaimed, unsure of why Buck was so difficult when Claire was right about things.

“Only because you applied to like every newspaper in the state and she recommended your work to the guy who hired you! It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy!”

“Either way, my self-fulfilling prophecy helped pay for these potatoes, so you can shut it.”

Buck rolled his eyes, “So what did she say?”

Steve had debated not telling Bucky what Claire had predicted. But he hated keeping things from Buck, and Buck had never put any faith in palm reading anyway. If anything, it would be good to get this off his chest, hearing Bucky poke fun at the words would make them lose some of their power. “She said I would die in my best friend’s arms.” No need to sugar coat anything.

There was a large sigh from across the table. “Well, I guess I’m never hugging you again, Steve. You’ll just have to live forever now.”

It was Steve’s turn to roll his eyes. “We’ll see if you remember that the next time you’re sauced.” He and Bucky were both done eating, so he grabbed their plates and took them to the sink.

Before he started cleaning them, Bucky came from behind and wrapped his arms around Steve’s chest, pulling him close. He leaned down to whisper in Steve’s ear, “Yeah, you’re right. Might as well give up now.”

Steve sank into the hug, letting himself enjoy the temporary contact with his friend before pushing him away so he could do the dishes. It was never smart for Steve to stay in Bucky’s arms for too long. He’d start thinking things he shouldn’t think about his best friend. Who liked girls. Liked dancing with them, and flirting with them, and kissing them, and who was absolutely not someone Steve should grow affectionate toward.

“Best be careful, Stevie. If you anger me now, I can just hug ya dead.”

Yeah, it was a good idea to tell Bucky what Claire had said.

 

December 1942, Brooklyn

That winter when sickness hit, it hit hard as ever. Steve bundled up under blanket after blanket and was still shivering. Buck was training out in Wisconsin with the 107th. From what Steve heard from him, he was doing well. In his last letter, he mentioned that he’d rose in rank again, was now a Sergeant. Sergeant Barnes. Sounded about right.

I hope you are taking care of yourself while I’m training, he’d ended his letter. I’d worry about your health, but I happen to have it on good confidence that you won’t die without me right by your side. Guess that means you don’t have to worry about me much in the war, either. As long as you’re alive, I must be too. Someone’s gotta look out for you. Just don’t go getting any new best friend while I’m gone.

 

February 1943, Camp Lehigh

Bucky,

I enlisted. I’m at a training camp in New Jersey. I know, I know. Not as picturesque as Wisconsin, but I like it here. There’s an old doctor who seems to think I’d be a great soldier. And a British woman who’s the prettiest dame I’ve ever seen. Has a better right hook than me. Buck, I think I might do something that’s either really stupid or the smartest thing I’ve ever done. I miss you.

Take care,

Steve

 

March 1943, Brooklyn

I’m doing something stupid tomorrow, Buck. Something real stupid. But it’s supposed to make me stronger, a better soldier. Maybe if it works, I’ll see you again sooner than expected.

I owe you a present this year, Buck. With all that’s been happening, I haven’t been able to go out and buy you anything special. Just hold on to this letter and cash it in for a free drink, your choice.

No new best friends to report, so I have to imagine you are doing okay.

 

April 1943, Italian Front

I hate Europe. It’s cold, the air is always wet, and there’s not enough extra paper to write everyone at once. I haven’t heard from you yet, but I guess it takes letters a while to find their way to the right company. Don’t have too much down time anyway, but I promise if you write, I’ll keep it in my pocket like you’re my dame. Wouldn’t even care if I got made fun of by the guys. They’re a good sort. Couple of them real punks, you’d like them.

I hope you’re okay. I’m sure you’ve tried to enlist again, they oughtta put you in jail for conscription fraud or something.

Have you talked to Becca lately, I wanna know more about this Kevin guy she’s seein’ …

 

May 1943, USO Circuit

The work is exhausting, Buck. I know that sounds ridiculous, coming from me. But I’ve had more energy since my training, so even exhausted I have too much energy. I wish they’d let me do something important, something real. I’m nothing but a circus monkey. And my hands are so different I have to relearn how to draw.

They say they might send me to Europe soon. Boost spirits for the troops. Maybe I’ll see you soon.

Steve doesn’t send the letter. He’s not supposed to talk about project rebirth.

Steve does send Bucky a drawing. It’s of their old apartment building, it’s rough as he’s doing it from memory. Buck will probably notice he’s not in New York, but Steve’s not brave enough to say anything just yet.

 

July 1943, Italian Front

My mom says you’re not in Brooklyn anymore. Stevie, if you dare move our apartment to Manhattan with this new high paying job of yours, I’m never forgiving you. The only thing that gets me through most days is imaging coming home to hot dogs and potatoes and you. Never thought I’d miss a boiled potato.

Loved the picture you sent. I keep it in my pocket as a luck charm, like I promised.

What are you doing, Steve? How did you enlist? We both know you’re textbook 4F and I don’t mean that as an insult. It’s ugly here. I’m happier to have you home.

Mom says it’s something for the war effort, but I’d imagine you could draw from anywhere, even a dingy Brooklyn apartment. Just tell me what you’re doin, Stevie? I know I might not be able to help, but… well, I’d like to know anyway.

We’re pushing the krauts North, it’s slow going but we might be winning. Not allowed to say much more.

Please write. I miss you.

Happy birthday.

Yours,

Bucky

 

August 1943, USO Circuit

Yours. He’d signed the letter yours.

 

October 1943, Azzano

They were taking heavy fire. Barnes had moved back as far as he could safely go, any farther and he’d be out in the open. “Sergeant!” he heard a call from his right. Jones was waving him over to where he was taking cover with Dugan. He pointed to a crater that would work great as cover.

Barnes ran to it, only getting there because Jones shot any man who raised his gun in Barnes direction. Barnes returned the favor for him and Dugan.

“Either of you have a radio on you?” Barnes asked.

“No, Sarge,” Dugan replied. “Just a couple of guns and a lucky chocolate bar.”

“What makes it so lucky?” Jones asked.

“You see, I haven’t died since I’ve gotten it.”

“Well then let’s use your lucky foot, and these lucky guns to kill us some krauts.” Barnes, Jones, and Dugan shot at the approaching Germans.

A bit later, running low on ammo, Jones shouted, “Down!” and they all took cover as a large tank rolled into the field and shot at the German soldiers.

“That one of ours?” Barnes asked.

“If it is, it’s not one I’ve seen before. There’s some sort of skull with tentacles on the side,” Dugan responded, standing to survey the remains of their unit.

Barnes prayed that the tanks were friendlies.

They were not.

 

November 1943, Krausberg HYDRA Facility

They worked hard. HYDRA agents—not quite Nazis, but definitely not friendly—forced them to make new and strange weapons that shot deadly blue flame. Barnes didn’t understand how they worked.

His back hurt him and his hands were burnt. He was tired all the time. Hell, they all were.

They knew if they stopped, however, a worse fate awaited them.

The only thing they were able to do was talk shit. Most the officers didn’t speak English, so could be safely insulted to their face as long as one’s tone didn’t convey insult.

Unlucky for Barnes, he insulted the one idiot on base who spoke English. “Well, lads, at least we won’t look like that when we get home. Nah, we’ll be fighting fit with all this work. Bet that guy couldn’t throw a left hook if it killed him,” he had said.

Turned out, the guy could throw a left hook. And a right hook. And was very good at kicking where it counted. And smart enough to have a gun trained on Barnes the whole time so he couldn’t fight back.

Once he was satisfied with Barnes’ injuries, he went to continue his guard as if nothing had happened.

He didn’t get far, the weapon that Dernier was working on fired at him, killing him quickly. Other guards immediately came to see what had happened, Falsworth already explaining in broken German that it had misfired.

“Looks like hydrochloric acid can burn right through the safety on these weapons,” Dernier commented. “Who would’ve thought.” Barnes didn’t smile, but it was a close thing.

Dugan helped Barnes to the edge of their cell, propping him up against the bars. Barnes’ back was to the isolation wards they took prisoners who couldn’t build. He knew that he’d end up there soon.

“Here,” Dugan said, offering Barnes the last bit of his chocolate.

“Can’t take that, Dum Dum. It’s your luck.”

“I’m starting to think you might need some luck of your own, Sarge,” Dugan responded, pushing the chocolate at Barnes’ hand. “Or at least be lucky enough to have some chocolate before you go.”

“I’m not going anywhere. I can’t die, you see,” Barnes closed his eyes, he was so, so tired.

“And why’s that?” Dugan said, elbowing him to keep him awake.

“My best friend is gonna die in my arms one day, and he ain’t dead yet. So, I can’t die either.”

“Well, then I guess there’s no point in giving you my lucky chocolate, is there?” Dugan grabbed the bar back from Barnes.

“No point at all.” Barnes heard more than saw the guards coming to grab him, for sitting down or for the death of an officer, he didn’t know.

Heard his fellow cellmates trying to fight them away. Heard them fail. He was grabbed, dragged, strapped to a chair, and pumped full of God-knows-what green liquid.

“Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes. 32557038.” It happened in a blur of pain running through his veins.

“Sergeant James. 3255703.” They didn’t ask any questions only coming in to refill the IV bags pushing liquids into his body.

“Sergeant. 325570.” He didn’t open his eyes anymore when he heard them.

“Sarge. 32557038.” It was too much.

“Sergeant. 32557…” Was that Steve? But he was too big.

“Come on, Buck.” It was Steve.

“I thought you were smaller,” Bucky heard himself say.

“Well, I thought you were dead, so we’re both getting good news,” Steve lifted him up and dragged him off the table, out of the room.

“Can’t die. Didn’t hold you,” Buck replied. He felt Steve’s grip under his arms tighten.

“Let’s get out of here,” Steve said.

They got out.

 

December 1943, London

The commandos took leave to ring in the New Year, and they were doing it in style. Dugan had tricked Steve into buying their drinks for the night, which was woefully unfair as Steve couldn’t even get drunk with the rest of them.

No one else thought so, and all had more than their share of beers.

Bucky was teetering on the edge of tipsy. Since… November, it’d taken him a little longer than normal to get drunk. He still could at least, whatever they did to him in that room hadn’t changed him that much.

He shook his head to clear it, not wanting to think those thoughts on New Year’s. He was chatting with Falsworth, each poking fun at slang the other used. It was good, he thought. For all of them to get off the battle field and relax. Since Steve created their new unit, it’d been non-stop action or moving to action or running from action.

And Bucky had thought Steve needed someone to watch his back before he joined the army.

Now, Steve needed two on his back, one on either side, and one standing in front of him yelling not to do anything stupid.

The only other person he’d met since November that was willing to yell at Steve came into the bar just then. Peggy Carter. Quite a nice dame, smart, quick witted, feisty. She was a lot like Steve and it seemed she might also like Steve a lot.

Bucky hated that he disliked her. She was good for Steve, for them all. He knew he only did a semi-decent job of hiding his disappointment when Morita came up to him and finished his beer for him, asking him to get them another round. At the bar, the opposite end of where Steve and Peggy were now talking. Thank you Morita.

Buck headed for the bar, getting a round plus one for the lady. He put all the beers on the commandos table, swiping two as he headed for Steve and Peggy.

“A beer for the lovely dame,” he said, handing Peggy the mug.

“Thank you, Sergeant,” she accepted it gracefully.

“I’ll leave you two lovebirds to get reacquainted,” he winked. Placing the other beer in front of Steve. He missed the look of embarrassed confusion on Steve’s face and he was out of the bar before either had finished their beers.

He didn’t want to watch Steve fall in love. And he didn’t want to think about why he wouldn’t want to watch it.

 

January 1944, London

When Steve was mad, he threw punches and spat insults. He’d fight back to hurt whoever hurt him. He was loud, he was immediate, he was forceful. Always had been, only difference now was his punch was less likely to tickle and more likely to down a man for a minute.

When Bucky was mad, he smiled. He’d wait, talk civilly, normally. He gave no hints of his anger and absorbed bribes like a sponge. His barbs might be a little more on the mark, but they also were when he was tired. Or hungry. Or drunk.

Steve didn’t think Bucky was mad at him, but if it wasn’t anger, Steve didn’t know what it was. His sergeant had been avoiding him since Krausberg and Steve didn’t like it.

“—And the dames! Ugh, the dames at the base were fire. You remember them?” Dugan drunkenly reminisced.

“Are you kidding, Sarge couldn’t remember his name in the morning, you think he remembers the tiny blonde girl?” Jones joked.

“Hey! I’ll have you know I never forget a face,” Bucky laughed.

“Uh huh, that why she threw hot coffee in your face the next morning?” Jones was trying not to smile at the memory of his sergeant’s humiliation.

“Okay, maybe I forgot her face, but I was drunk!” Buck put his hands up in an exaggerated shrug.

“Which is what you should be now!” Dugan slammed another beer in Bucky’s hand, half of it spilling on their arms.

Steve smiled and shook his head when Buck sent him a ‘please help me’ look. Turned out to be a mistake. Buck made sure to hold eye contact as he downed the new beer.

Maybe Steve was wrong, and Buck wasn’t avoiding him.

“Well what about our great Captain here? Someone get him a drink or three. Let’s see if we can’t get you drunk, huh Stevie?” Maybe Bucky was mad.

Either way, Steve could never say no when Bucky had that devilish grin on his face.

Ah hour later found Cap downing another sidecar made with tequila. They’d started tasting less bad around number 5. But he still didn’t love tequila. The other men, however, did.

It was late—early?—when Steve called it. “I’m a waste of booze, gentlemen,” he stated.

“Damn, was hoping with the changes I could finally take you for a real night of drinking,” Bucky said, head resting on the table.

“We did go drinking,” Steve pointed out.

“No, we’d go to one bar and have one drink and you’d get in a fight with someone twice your size.”

“I don’t think they make guys that are twice Cap’s size,” Dugan argued.

“He used to be smaller,” Buck seemed sad when he said that, sorrowful. That’s when it dawned on Steve. Buck wasn’t mad, he was sad.

“And that’s enough of tonight,” Steve ended the conversation. “I’ll get this one to bed if someone else helps that one.” This one being Buck and that one being Dernier, who was already unconscious.

“C’mon, Buck. Let’s get you back,” Steve offered his hand to Bucky, but the offer was ignored.

“Too tired, can’t stand. Sleep here and move in the morning,” Steve could barely hear what Buck was saying, as he was talking directly to the table.

Steve sighed and went to pick Buck up. He took the other man by surprise, causing him to roll out of his arms and hit the ground.

“What the fuck was that for?” Buck cried out.

“It wasn’t on purpose, idiot. Come on, let’s get to bed,” this time, Steve slipped his arm under Bucky’s and hoisted him up.

“Just don’t do anything stupid, now. I refuse to hold you if you do anything stupid.”

“I would’ve thought you forgot about that,” Steve whispered.

“Wouldn’t forget. Claire’s been too right about too much to forget. I’d call being a super soldier something ‘great and unprecedented’” Buck mumbled, words slurring together.

“Guess I’ll just have to be extra careful tonight,” Steve promised and felt Buck’s arm tighten on his and together they slowly walked back to where they were set up for the night.

Steve took off Buck’s shoes for him, but nothing else. What with everything else that was happening, it had been easy enough for Steve to force aside his feelings. And Peggy was a good woman, a woman who seemed interested. Steve would do better to put effort into that, rather than into the semi-unconscious man at his feet.

Buck had drool running out of his open mouth and onto his pillow, appearing to be already asleep. Had he been anyone else, Steve would’ve left him there. Instead, Steve reached out and wiped Buck’s drool with his hand, then wiping his hand on Buck’s shirt. He rearranged his friend into a more comfortable sleeping position, telling himself it was only so he wouldn’t have to listen to the complains of a crook in his neck the next day.

Bucky, fully comfortable and tucked in, murmured his thanks. And also something that sounded a lot like “I miss you” but Steve must’ve misheard. Why on Earth would Buck miss him when he was right here?

 

February 1944, France

Buck was writing a letter home when Steve entered his tent. He put his pen down, looking at Steve to see what he had to say.

Steve didn’t say anything. Bucky raised his eyebrows, and still Steve didn’t talk. “Talk now or you wait until I’m done writing home,” Buck said and when Steve didn’t answer he went back to his letter. “Rebecca is engaged. It’s quite the family drama,” Buck mentioned when he was done writing. “So talk Steve.”

This time, as Buck waited for Steve to find his words, he stared at his friend. He still wasn’t adjusted to Steve’s new size, kept looking down when he talked and finding himself staring at a massive chest. He wondered if Steve would even fit in his arms anymore.

When Steve’d first shared that fortune, Buck had thought he would die sick. That’s always how he’d thought Steve would die. To be honest, he was glad to pretend that Steve wouldn’t die alone. That he’d be there, to comfort his friend. Glad to let himself believe that Claire could tell the future.

Now, he wasn’t sure he wanted her to be right.

“You’re still my best friend,” Steve finally said. “And I’m still yours. Nothing’s changed, Buck. I can just breathe without rattling and can take a hit without falling down. I still trust you more than anything and hate boiled potatoes. I love the smell of bread. I love to draw. I hate the propaganda films I’m in. I hate the taste of tequila. I’m righteous to the point of annoying, and I throw punches before I ask questions. I’m still me, Buck. How dare you miss me, I’m right here. And I’ll keep being right here. Now, grab your rations and c’mon. We can eat them over the river and pretend we’re home.”

He ended with a command. That’s how Bucky knew he was scared. Of losing him, Buck realized.

It was that realization that pushed Buck to his feet, to his bag to grab out his rations, and to the river. Steve was still Steve.

And Bucky Barnes would always follow Steven Rogers anywhere.

 

March 1944, Austria

The car hit a bump and one of Bucky’s hand went to grip the support pole by his head. The other went to grab the camera man’s shirt to keep him from falling out the back of the vehicle.

He was so fucking done with these film crews.

As soon as the car stopped, he jumped out and walked over to the driver’s seat, where Jones was swinging out. “Captain America and the Howling Commandos: Bucky Barnes and the story of how he killed the next camera man to swing a god damn camera at his face,” Buck suggested.

“Too long,” Jones said. “Try, Captain America: The Howling Commandos disappear to do their actual work instead of propaganda films.”

“That’s just as long!” Barnes exclaimed, heading back to help the others unload the truck.

Dugan was on board throwing supplies at whoever looked least ready to catch them. Morita had to duck the backpack that was sent his way. The next thing out was a tent, and Dugan already had his next victim in his sights.

“Cap!” He called as he tossed the tent, “Catch!”

Steve looked up just in time to not be hit in the face with a tent. But not soon enough to remain standing.

Luckily Bucky got to him on time, one hand going around his back and the other grabbing his arm. He yanked Steve back to standing, the tent falling to their feet.

Bucky hadn’t held Steve since he got to the front—bars and torturing HYDRA bases not included. It was weird to not have to look down at a smaller man. Weird that his arm didn’t reach as far across Steve’s back.

But Steve’s eyes were the same as they looked into his.

“You should know better by now than to not pay attention in Dugan’s unloading zone,” Buck said.

“Sarge! Heads!” Dugan shouted as he threw a sleeping bag at Bucky.

“So should you,” Steve replied.

 

April 1944, Austria

“Captain America and the story of how the Howling Commandos froze to death,” Morita said as he walked towards where the rest of the men were huddled around a dwindling fire.

“Isn’t it supposed to be spring,” Steve asked from where he was sitting next to Bucky. They were closer than they’d been in months, the cold driving them into each other to share warmth.

“Yeah, you go beat up the groundhog Man with a Plan and tell him the boys at war think it’s time he came out of his hole.”

 

May 1944, Austria

“Captain America: Rogers dies because he’s too daft to check his right flank,” Buck yelled as he ran past Steve and into the HYDRA base.

“That’s a winner,” Jones replied.

“Watch it, Barnes or the next time I’m interviewed I’m telling them how you fell out of a tree because you saw a bee!” Steve shouted right back.

 

July 1944, Austria

Buck had done his best not to make a deal of the day. Starting simply with waking Steve up to a nice K-ration meal and with some hot water to make his instant coffee.

“I know it’s not what your mother would make ya, but it’s what we’ve got,” Buck said as he set the tray in front of Steve. “Happy birthday, Stevie.”

“Thanks, Buck.” Steve dug into his meal, giving his cigarette to Bucky as he didn’t use them. “So, how’s your family been?”

“Well, Bec’s gotten married to this new fella, Kevin, and my pa says he’s a decent sort but my ma, well you know my ma. She doesn’t know if he’s the right height for her sweet Becca and apparently the other day at family dinner…” It was the first time in a while Steve had asked Bucky about the Barnes, so they played catch up throughout breakfast.

“If your ma were here, she’d find a way to make this shit good,” Bucky said as they finished up.

Then, he couldn’t do much as they made their way to the next base.

That evening, though, he did give Steve his present. It was a new compass and he’d taken a photograph of Carter and pasted it to the inside lid. If he’d been unsure about the gift at first, seeing Steve’s blush whenever he used it had quickly chased those doubts away.

It was a good reminder for Bucky, warning him against the warmth he felt grow in his chest when he looked at his best friend.

 

August 1944, Italy

Steve used the compass that Bucky gave him for his birthday often. He just didn’t expect to be so conflicted when doing so. Palming the closed compass, he would think of Bucky.

They shared so much, now. Even more than they used to. They shared their days and their jokes and their K-rations and their smiles. Bucky would tell Steve whenever he heard from home, would help him in briefings, would make fun of him with the guys, would make sure Steve was still looking after himself with all that was happening.

And Steve liked it, liked having Bucky around. But he also liked Peggy. And the way he liked both wasn’t as different as he felt it should be.

Open the compass, and there was her face like she’s his true North. And she should’ve been. He really liked Peggy, could love her, given the time. She’s beautiful, whip smart, stubborn, kind, and so much more.

And so is Bucky. But Steve knew Bucky would never—with him. Some days, it felt like a gift, knowing Bucky would always be there for him. Other days, today, it felt like too much. Too close. Not enough and not in the right way.

Steve would do better to just focus on Peggy.

 

September 1944, Austria

Steve was hit. Bucky didn’t see it, but he saw him go down. Morita was there before he was, hands on Steve’s neck, staunching the blood.

Morita saw Bucky running over, “I need you to hold him down while I sew up his neck.”

Bucky froze. Hold him down. While Steve was bleeding. From a potentially fatal wound. No. No no no, Bucky shook his head frantically, feet frozen to the ground. Jones got there shortly after, and shoved around Barnes, helping Morita hold him down.

Everything that happened next was a blur. They got back to base, Steve was taken to the temporary hospital building, Buck forced into a chair and suddenly there is a beer in his hands.

“He’ll be fine,” Dugan said. “Never seen you freeze like that in battle, Sarge.”

“I couldn’t—I don’t—He can’t—” Buck couldn’t talk, his throat closing at the thought of Steve, still on the ground. Snow turning red around him.

“You really think you’re gonna hold him while he dies?” Dugan asked. Maybe Bucky should’ve been surprised Dugan remembered that conversation, but he wasn’t. Dugan always packed away more than anyone thought. Buck faintly smiled at his friend.

“Up until just now, I mighta said no to that question. But maybe I can just cheat his death by not touching him in combat.”

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“No more stupid than carrying around a morsel of a chocolate bar,” Buck smiled. This time it reached his eyes.

 

He went to visit Steve. He expected the man to be laying still and pale on a hospital bed, he did not expect to walk into a Steve who was trying to get out of bed and being held down by Peggy and the nurse on duty.

“What’s going on here?” He asked loudly, for once not planning on leaving immediately upon seeing Peggy. He’s trying to get better around her. It took him too long to realize he wasn’t willing to lose Steve over his own sick heart. He’d rather have Steve and Peggy than not have Steve at all.

“Oh thank God, maybe you’ll be able to keep him down. He seems to believe that he needs no rest after being shot in the neck. I’m too tired to play babysitter. I have attacks to plan,” Peggy left in a whirlwind.

“Steven, like the dame said, you just got shot. What on earth could make you get out of bed? If they gave me bed rest, I’d be more than happy to sleep for a week.”

“Peggy told me they’re sending you back out again.” This was news to Bucky. It wasn’t surprising though. If they waited too long word of what they did at the last base would spread and the nearest one would evacuate before they got there. Buck let his hand rest on Steve’s shoulder, gently pressing the other back to the bed.

“It’s a war, what did you expect? I can call Schmidt if you want. Let him know you’re on bed rest and ask if he and HYDRA could just take a break until Captain America is feeling better.” Bucky sat in the chair Peggy must’ve pulled up to Steve’s bedside.

“That’d be great, actually,” Steve said, but placated Buck and relaxed into the mattress. They were quiet for a moment before Steve continued, “I don’t like the idea of you guys out there without me.”

Buck bristled inwardly at that but tried to keep his demeanor the same. “Believe it or not, Stevie, myself and these men were at war before you were in training. We can handle it.”

“That’s not—I know. That’s not what I meant, I’m sorry. I don’t doubt their ability and I sure as hell don’t doubt yours.” Steve ran his hand over his face and sighed. “I just hate missing out on a fight,” his joke fell slightly flat, but Buck laughed anyway.

“Don’t I know it.” Buck exasperated. He did what he’d become fairly good at and diverted the conversation to his family. “Anyway, Becs wrote back and she’s pregnant. She wants to name the baby Steve but I think that’s a dumb name for a baby. James is a nice regal name. Got a good sound to it, ya know? Plus, I hear these days everybody is naming their baby Steve. Apparently, there’s some idiot hero running around Europe making a fool of himself and his name’s picked up in popularity.” This time Buck and Steve laughed for real. Buck kept a steady stream of conversation on whatever tickled his fancy until Morita came to grab him for a briefing.

Steve tensed but (smartly) didn’t say anything. He nodded at Morita and grimaced as Buck got up to leave.

“Don’t worry, Stevie. Me and my arms will be fine,” Buck said.

“Your arms?” Steve questioned.

“Yeah, how else can I hold ya?” Buck tossed over his shoulder as he headed out the door. Hiding his hatred of leaving an ailing Steve’s side with the cavalier joke.

At least with Steve left behind, Bucky wouldn’t have that damn fortune hanging over his head.

 

October 1944, Austria

Bucky couldn’t get that damn fortune out of his head. It ate at him when they fought.

He knew that he couldn’t stop Steve’s death just by not touching the other guy. He knew that.

It didn’t stop him from not going near Steve in combat though. His role as sniper helping with keeping his real motives hidden.

He knew it didn’t make sense.

He did it anyway.

At first, Steve found it amusing. He’d laugh and roll his eyes whenever Buck ran away from him in combat. Make remarks about believing in palm reading now when he never had before.

But if there was one thing Bucky had gained in the war, it was a weird, desperate belief that he would be there when Steve died. A belief that if he wasn’t, Steve wouldn’t die.

And so far, his belief held up.

 

December 1944, Austria

Steve looked around at the group of them, tired but smiling after their most recent mission. They’d found a small, abandoned home to set up in for the night. Falsworth had made something that didn’t look entirely unappetizing.

He was staring at Bucky who was ribbing Jones for the recent letter the man got from his sweetheart. She’d put some of her perfume on the letter, and Buck was complaining that Jones smelled like a woman he missed that he had met in England.

Steve watched his friend smile until it became too much for him. Until he found that the word beautiful might be best defined with a picture of that smile. Those eyes as they fill with humor as Jones gets more flustered in his defense of a letter.

“At least I don’t carry around my dame’s art in my pocket at all times,” Jones tried to end the fight.

“Are you calling my art ugly?” Bucky faked insult. “I’ll have you know it’s not my dame that drew it, it’s—”

Steve threw his biscuit across the circle, cutting off Bucky’s statement. Bucky smirked and happily ate Steve’s biscuit. Steve mourned the loss, he should’ve thrown his spoon instead.

The conversation was just about to move on when Jones looked as though he’d realized something. “Oh my god, Steve,” he stated. “Your best friend from Brooklyn, named Steve, who wrote you letters. And was small and sick all the time is Cap.”

“Yes, and the importance of that is?” Dugan asked.

“Steve drew the Brooklyn picture!” Jones exclaimed. Steve tensed, semi-expecting someone to say something about Buck carrying around a picture a fella drew in his breast pocket. He didn’t want to fight his troops, but he would, over this.

“Steve, you have to draw a picture of all of us! My girl would love it. She’s been asking for one, but I’ve got a shaky hand and can’t draw for shit. Please, she’d be over the moon. I’ll give you all my biscuits for a week!” Jones begged.

Steve relaxed and allowed himself to feel relief. The other men seemed to have already moved on from the news.

“Sure, I’ll do a sketch for her. But I want your biscuits for two weeks,” Steve bargained. Jones nodded and went to go grab a pencil and some paper for Steve.

Steve met Bucky’s eye and smiled. Bucky returned the smile.

He carried around Steve’s drawing in his pocket. For some reason, Steve felt like someone had reached into his chest and was squeezing his heart, but not enough to damage it. It felt something like pain, and something like hope. It felt like maybe Bucky might feel something similar to what Steve did.

Steve didn’t focus too much on it, after all, there would be time to reflect when they got back to London.

 

January 1945, Swiss Alps

Steve couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. He stayed, balanced precariously on the edge of a moving train. It’d be so easy to fall too.

 

January 1945, London

“We couldn’t find him,” Peggy said. Him, his body. “I’m sorry.”

Steve nodded. He couldn’t believe Bucky was gone. He couldn’t be gone. It was all his fault.

His fault Bucky was on the train. His fault Bucky was in the Commandos. His fault Zola got away in the first place. Everything traced back to him. Him and his stupid decision to be part of an experiment so that he could fight in a war he never should’ve been a part of.

“Stop blaming yourself,” Peggy added. “It’s not your fault.”

“Had I never gotten to the front—”

“He would’ve died in Krausberg tortured by HYRDA agents that the allies wouldn’t know existed. You would’ve gotten a letter and been blaming yourself for not being there. It’s never worth it to blame yourself, Steve. It’s never one man’s fault. Any of us could’ve done anything differently and it’d be someone else sitting here, or no one, or everyone. We can’t predict the future, Steve. We can only find it out as we go. Go, we’ll talk to Zola. We’ll find Schmidt. It won’t be for nothing.”

We can’t predict the future, Steve. It hurt more than it should’ve. You’ll die in your best friend’s arms. All the times Bucky guaranteed his own safety on the promise in that fortune.

Your best friend will die reaching for your hand. Maybe that future showed up in his love line rather than his life line.

Maybe the secret was that it wouldn’t matter how he died, anymore. Because to Steve, if anyone asked, he’d died on a mountain in the Swiss Alps, staring into his best friend’s eyes.

 

January 1945, London

How do you write to your best friend’s family to let them know you failed? He’d promised to keep Bucky safe, and he hadn’t. Peggy offered to write it for him, but it was his job as Buck’s Captain. He’d looked in Buck’s file, to see who was his next of kin, to see which family member he was supposed to address the letter to.

He found his name there instead. 

It was the first time he let himself cry. Staring at a file with his name on it, Steve hated Bucky, a little. He supposed he was always to be the one to tell Buck’s family this news. 

He wondered if there’s a lost letter, addressed to him, telling him Buck went missing at Azzano. 

He wondered if he hated fighting alongside Buck or loved it. Did they steal the moments or were the moments stolen from them?

He couldn’t write, but he did pick up the pencil and draw. Buck’s face, lit by a dying fire. Bucky’s smile, bright and everlasting.

The Bucky that Steve wanted to remember. Happy, making jokes, being loved. Not the scared eyes of a friend who knew he was just out of reach. Who let go before Steve could fall trying to save him.

He wrote the letter to Rebecca. He didn’t follow the proper format, knowing she would hate him if he did. He said he hoped she named the baby James, Bucky thought all Steves were stubborn punks. He mentioned how much Bucky hated the camera crews and how many times he saved their lives. He mentioned Dugan, Jones, Dernier, Falsworth, Peggy, and all the people who already missed Bucky’s presence in their lives. He promised to visit if he was ever back in New York. He promised to win. He promised to make HYDRA hurt. 

He sent the letter. And he sent his drawing with it.

 

February 1945, London

Now when Steve looked at his palms, he didn’t look at the lines.

Instead, he saw the empty air between his fingers, where Bucky’s hand should’ve fit.

 

March 1945, Swiss Alps

Bucky would be 28 in five days. Steve made sure his hits landed.

Steve made sure they hurt.

 

March 1945, over the Arctic

Steve said goodbye to Peggy. Took out the compass Bucky gave him and placed it on the dashboard. Opened it for the last time.

It wasn’t in his best friend’s arms.

But maybe falling was the closest he’d ever get to them again.

 

July 2011, New York City

Maybe the trick of the whole thing was that Steve couldn’t die.

Maybe Bucky really had cheated the system in 1944, refusing to hold onto him.

Maybe Steve wishes he hadn’t, on the bad days.

Maybe Steve would give anything, for one last hug.

**Author's Note:**

> There are some minor mentions of violence that are similar to what happen in canon: Bucky getting tortured, soldiers fighting, etc.  
> Some internal homophobia, but mostly just "I can't have feelings for a MAN" stuff
> 
> Thank you for reading! Subscribe for more, this is the first part of a series that will all revolve around the same topic. Don't worry-it doesn't end here. These boys deserve a happy ending, I think.


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